


hurry boy, [he's] waiting there for you

by 7losers



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), F/M, M/M, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie Tozier-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7losers/pseuds/7losers
Summary: eddie studies in dc for the summer, and richie can't deal with his Feelings
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 80





	hurry boy, [he's] waiting there for you

**Author's Note:**

> if you read my one (1) les mis fanfic you will see that these are very similar. both are college aus; one i wrote before i went to college, the other i wrote after i graduated. what can i say? i love this trope.

In typical Richie fashion, they’re running late.

His dearest Eddie Kaspbrak has not once set foot on soil, water, or sand outside Maine, feeling what Richie can only assume to be resistance from his piece of work mother. Despite moving out of Derry and joining the majority of his friends at the University of Maine (a whopping hour-if-you-drive slowly outside of Derry), his mother’s seemed to suck him into the guilt trap that is her mouth, her town, and her garbage.

Richie can assume.

So when Eddie, through their university, was offered the chance to work out-of-state in the summer of 2015, his friends were all gung-ho and may have been a bit too forceful in their excitement. As it turned out, Eddie hadn’t needed much convincing. He accepted the internship - calculating his student loans and planning to live “more frugally” during the school year - and the plan was put on hold until he completed his sophomore year of college.

At the end of the spring semester, Richie drove back to Derry. The soul purpose: gracing Wentworth and Maggie Tozier with his humble presence. For an odd two-week period before Eddie left, he drove back and forth between Eddie, Bill, and Beverly’s on-campus apartment complex and his parents’ house, taking the time in Derry to lovingly pester Mike at his father’s farm.

He was driving back from Derry to Orono which, as noted, is normally less than an hour drive, when _somebody_ two cars ahead decided to slam on their brakes and into another car. Richie spent twenty minutes on the side of the road, contemplating the (admittedly small) dent in the front of his old-yet-wise truck. He decided to fuck it, if it was bad enough to warrant insurance claims or auto-repair Eddie’d be able to tell him, and drove around the crash.

“Count your _stars_ that I’ve arrived without a dent, unlike my sweet, tender Oscar,” Richie said once he’d arrived at their complex. Eddie, Bill, Bev, and Ben were waiting with a suitcase near the front of the building. 

Everybody said their second round of goodbyes, complete with promises to Skype, text, call, thanks modern technology, and Eddie spent an additional five minutes squinting at Oscar’s front bumper to ensure they wouldn’t break down on the way to the airport. He deemed it satisfactory, and Richie and Eddie waved “bye bye” to the three who were scheduled to work that afternoon.

Now, they’re running thirty minutes late, but -

“It’s fine, Eds, I pinky promise that you didn’t need to get to the airport two and a half hours early,” Richie tells Eddie. They’re outside of his gate, standing away from the crowd of people getting in line for security.

“I know that, Richie, I just want to be careful,” Eddie replies. He squeezes a dollop of sanitizer onto his palms. “I took too much, have some.” He holds out his hands.

“The risks I’m willing to take for you,” Richie says. Eddie lets the excess sanitizer fall off of his palm and onto Richie’s. It burns when it reaches the insides of his knuckles; he must have some paper cuts. Eddie lets his right hand fall into Richie’s. 

It’s comforting. Richie’s drumming his left fingers along Eddie’s suitcase, a non-rhythm. They’ve held hands before; Richie’s a touchy person. He uses his friends' hands, thighs, arms, as an anchor when his mind’s running a mile a minute. 

“You’re gonna be gone for a while, Eds,” he says. A song flicks through his mind quickly, _alive in the world’s company, only gone for a while_ , probably something obscure he found at 2am months ago, hunting for new music on Spotify. 

“What’d you say earlier? Thanks to modern technology…” Eddie begins. He squeezes Richie’s hand. Richie squeezes back.

“We'll Skype you, but nothing can or will beat seeing your cute face in person!” His chest is kind of tight. They, along with Bill and Stan, have spent every summer together since they were six. RichieandEddie, EddieandRichie. Eddie’s going to DC. He can feel Bill Clinton bubbling in his throat instead of _whatever_ he feels that constricts his chest, and -

“You will _not_ have sexual relations with a woman,” Richie says. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, a scoff turning into a gentle laugh. He takes his hand away from Richie’s and fumbles for his boarding pass and ID. “It’s a good thing I’m super fucking gay,” he says. There’s a pause, a beat of silence too long for the two of them. Eddie sighs. He sits on a bench, pulling Richie down with him, taking hold of his hand again. “I’m anxious.”

Richie bites back an accent. He knows his leg is bouncing up and down, because Eddie breaks their eye contact to stare pointedly at it. He can’t stop, but doesn’t say anything, leaving the door open for Eddie to continue.

“When I was younger, I - I used to take the long way home and walk by those old train tracks. I always had you guys, but I felt… trapped. The train tracks were closed and I hadn't called out my mom yet.” He licks his bottom lip. Richie drops his eyes, stares at Eddie’s lips. “And then I stood up to her, and I went to college, and the seal was broken. But it never felt like _enough_. And now, it's real. The train tracks are wide open.”

“Eddie Kaspbrak Moves to the Real World,” Richie says. 

“Shut up. That's all. It feels like enough, or a taste of 'enough', but I'm doing it alone, and that's weird. Skype me every night. 8:00?” Eddie asks. He seems to be finished with his speech, a casual sensitive topic brought up in a busy airport. Richie smiles. He feels warm.

“Of course, Eddie, my love.” He stands up abruptly, pulling Eddie up with him. He opens his arms, and Eddie falls into his body. Richie tries to pick him up - he would never be one to admit that he can’t really pick Eddie up, not really, he has noodle arms - and Eddie slaps his chest lightly.

“Don’t call me that. I’m going to go get in line. Your sappiness made me even later,” Eddie says. He grabs his suitcase, slings his backpack over his shoulder. Wipes his hands on the seat of his pants. Richie’s chest is compressing something near his heart, his lungs. He clears his throat.

“Text me!” he says. It sounds childish, a small, quiet request emerging from his throat. It doesn’t sound like Richie. “By jove.” There we go.

“Will do, Rich,” Eddie smiles at him, and gets in line.

Richie watches the line until he can’t see the top of Eddie’s head anymore.

 **received [eddie spaghetti]** : I’m in :) Here we go

 **sent [eddie spaghetti]** : dc won’t know what hit em

 **sent [eddie spaghetti]** : also you wont board for another hour

 **sent [eddie spaghetti]** : pinky promise remember ?? xD

* * *

Summer summary? Richie’s kinda fucking bored. 

(He should probably get a summer job. Their student-led radio station, for some unholy reason, is off during the summer, and has left Richie with way too much free time on his hands.)

He’s still driving between Derry and Orono. Ben’s working in Derry, visiting Orono when he’s not scheduled to work, but Bill and Beverly work on-campus (and off-campus, in Bev’s case). 

He and Eddie Skype every night at 8:00, and Richie ropes whoever he’s with at the time into the frame. Sometimes, on quiet, warm nights at home, this includes Went and/or Maggie.

“Hello, Eddie dear!” Maggie Tozier chirrups from across the kitchen. She’s scooping herself some ice cream. Richie, compelled by chocolate, does grabby hands. She rolls her eyes, gentle annoyance, and grabs another bowl.

“Hi, Mrs. Tozier.”

“How’s your internship going?” Richie diverts his gaze back to his laptop, a rough attempt to sway his attention from the ice cream to Eddie.

“It’s good,” Eddie says. He meets Richie’s eyes - as much as he can with the whole “do I look at the camera or the screen?” debacle - and shrugs. “I feel like I’m learning a lot, and I know it’s only been a couple weeks, but I don’t know if government work is the direction I want to go.” This peaks Richie’s interest. 

“You’re going to change your major?” Richie asks. They’re already halfway through school, and Eddie’s never given any indication he didn’t like what he was doing. 

“No, Richie,” Eddie asserts. He’s smiling, soft but proud. “I think I’d rather work with a nonprofit. We’ve just started to talk about them in class, but I’m learning that there’re tons of social work nonprofits around the country. I could move anywhere and find a job.” He’s still smiling, but Richie notices that it leaves his eyes. “There are always kids who need help.”

"That's wonderful, sweetie." Maggie sits next to Richie, continuing the conversation between mouthfuls of ice cream.

(Richie thinks back to late night conversations in the dorm, seven teenagers shoved into a room meant for four. 

“I’m going to declare my major,” Eddie said one night. They were absentmindedly watching a movie. Bill paused it, a gentle push forward. Richie was sitting next to Eddie that night; he can remember the way Eddie twiddled with his fingers when he spoke. He blinked hard, his eyes shining in the dark from the light of the TV. 

“Social work. I want to be a social worker,” he announced. “I want to - I want to help kids who’ve been in my,” he paused. He looked around at his friends, locking eyes with Beverly, “our positions.”

Richie felt his chest swell with pride.

And he continued to be proud, even when Eddie had come back to the dorm or, later, their apartment, fighting back tears. Even when Bill or Mike or Richie walked him through breathing exercises, through a panic attack brought. Eddie Kaspbrak is brave. He’s a fighter.)

* * *

**sent [eddie spaghetti]** : EDDDDIE SPAGHETTTTI

 **sent [eddie spaghetti]** : time 2 rock n roll my love, my lover, my frend

 **received [eddie spaghetti]** : Are you drunk?

 **sent [eddie spaghetti]** : yes

 **sent [eddie spaghetti]** : but, in my dEFENSE, everybody else is 2

 **received [eddie spaghetti]** : Get on skype, it’s way later than 8:00

“Guys! Guys,” Richie says. He stands abruptly from his blanket ball on the ground. His head spins a bit, and he stumbles - curses! his legs are way too long for his body - and searches for a laptop. “My dearest wants to Skype!”

When Eddie answers the obnoxious Skype ringtone, he gets a beautiful view of Richie’s nostrils and chin, turned to the side as he’s calling for their friends.

“You know you’re not the only person I’m Skyping with, Richie,” Eddie says with a laugh. 

“Your mom’s not the only person I’m Skyping with!” Richie blurts. He hopes it makes sense (it doesn’t). Eddie shakes his head.

“Stan, tickle him for me?” 

“My pleasure,” Stanley says. He’s stolen Richie’s blanket ball, a tight grip on his cup of wine. His eyes are closed, and he’s smiling gently. “Remind me tomorrow, need to strike when he’s least expecting it.”

“Conspirators!” Richie calls, his voice reverberating in the confines of the apartment. He moves his palm to his chest, fake astonishment. “Conspirateurs!” 

“I’ll help,” Bev volunteers from her spot on the couch with Ben. She’s draped over him lazily, foot bobbing to an unknown beat. Ben looks like he’s about to fall asleep. 

“How rude,” Richie says.

“Don’t you dare, Richie,” Bill says. He’s in the kitchen, digging in the fridge for another beer. “Don’t you f-f-fucking dare do Jar Jar.”

“Jar Jar was the best character in the prequels, change my mind,” Richie says.

“That’s just not true and you know it.”

“We’ve tried to change your mind! On multiple occasions.”

“Richie’s similar to Jar Jar, that’s why he likes him,” Eddie pipes in from the laptop. He fits in effortlessly, distance and sobriety be damned.

“You wound me, Eds!” 

They bicker for a couple more minutes. Everybody lets them duke it out, knowing it’s good-natured, until Richie’s hogged Eddie and the laptop for too long and Mike breaks the banter.

“So, Eddie, what’s a normal day look like in Washington, DC?”

Eddie begins chattering about DC, the July humidity, his interest in nonprofits, and the coffee shop he frequents. Richie tunes out. He’s heard about all of this already, and he does find it interesting and he’s happy happy happy that Eddie’s happy happy happy, but right now he’s drunk and fixating on the way Eddie’s hair is curling ever-so-slightly at the bottom, still wet from his shower.

He sort of blanks out at that point, foggy gaze and muddled brain soaking in every bit of Eddie that he can. He feels cloudy, but everything is so clear. Eddie has such nice skin. But he’s known that, Richie’s known that since he was thirteen. Eddie makes Richie feel… something.

Right now, Eddie makes Richie feel like he wants to reach into the laptop screen, put his hands on those freckled cheeks, and kiss him.

_Oooooh._

_Oh._

_That could be trouble._

“Good night, everybody!” Richie breaks out of his increasingly panicked reverie, automatically shooting out a “Good night sleep tight don’t let the bedbugs bite” as everybody else hollers their own drunken version of good night. Stanley had, at some point, also stolen his laptop back from Richie, and shuts the lid carefully.

“Why’d he go?” Richie asked. His mind is being pulled in six different directions.

Beverly responds from the couch. “Richie, pay attention!” She swats at him, but she’s smirking. Richie squints at her. His glasses are really dirty. Eddie usually cleans them when he notices the smudges. Maybe he could clean them and put them on his face and kiss his face. “It’s almost 11:00 and he works at 8:00 during the week. Not everybody can get drunk on a Tuesday during the summer.”

“Oh,” he says, lamely. He hadn’t really said goodbye. “D’ya think if I called him back he’d answer? I didn’t really say goodbye and now I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see his cute cute cute face again.”

“Wait until tomorrow, sweetie,” Bev says. What Richie doesn’t notice are glances the rest of his friends give each other. His eyes are fixated on his phone. “Give me your phone,” she says. 

“Nah,” Richie responds. He knows he shouldn’t text him. He should text him? Mind, now tossed in four different directions. A good night kiss? 

**sent [eddie spaghetti]** : GOOD NIGHT SLEEPY TIGHT DONT LET THE BED BUGS BTIE xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 **sent [eddie spaghetti]** : in csse you didn’t hearr me

 **received [eddie spaghetti]** : I heard you. Drink some water?

 **sent [eddie spaghetti]** : only 4 u

 **sent [eddie spaghetti]** : <3

Richie's stomach churns. He needs some water, vodka makes his stomach hurt. He goes to the bathroom and throws up.

* * *

Since the Drunken Night Revelation, Richie’s been in a constant state of frenzied panic. He thought sobering up would clear any confusion, but it’s seemed to only make it worse. 

Sure - his fingers feel like they’re on fire when Eddie laughs at one his jokes, or catches his eye during a GenEd and makes a dumb face. He feels like he needs to crawl out of his skin, hop in Oscar, and drive around for a couple of hours, crackly music blaring from his phone. He calls Eddie cute because he’s cute, and holds his hand because it makes him feel like he _could_ talk about his _feelings_.

Eddie makes him feel -

He feels love?

 _Okay_. So it’s real.

_Cool._

_Cool, cool, cool._

Richie tries to think for a second. He stands up from his parents’ couch, sits back down. He bounces his leg once, twice, and stands back up. He scampers, not graciously, to grab his keys from the counter and jumps the stairs off his porch.

Oscar is waiting for him. Richie hops in and throws his wallet in the passenger seat, phone in hand.

“Richie?” Eddie’s voice fills his ears.

Great, now he’s hearing him when he’s 650 miles away. 

Actually, no. Richie, completely intent on blasting some good ol’ 80s music in a sorely attempt to clear his head, curses his newly developed muscle memory. His traitorous fingers called Eddie’s cell instead.

So, Richie does what Richie does best. 

“I think I love you,” he says loudly. His voice is way too loud in his ears, and he sounds nasally. He knows he inherited Went’s boisterous tone but, _Jesus_ , is he always this loud?

He hangs up the phone.

“Jesus fuck,” he says. He kinda feels like throwing up again. 

He doesn’t know how he feels. What if he doesn’t actually love Eddie and his brain is making him feel weird things since he’s gone? He’s always been impulsive. Hell, that’s how Oscar became Oscar, he’d painted him green one night at 7:00 because he had the _urge_ to.

He calls Beverly, and word vomits the essence of above to her.

“Let me come to you, darling,” Richie finishes. _Dahling_. He hangs up the phone, blares some Wham!, and drives to Orono.

“We’re going to talk about your feelings,” Beverly tells Richie when he arrives an hour later, unshowered and sipping on a Mountain Dew. She’s sitting cross-legged on their couch, Ben next to her. Richie had started to drag the rocking chair from the corner, but she stopped him and made him grab the normal chair that didn’t perpetuate his itch to move.

“You’re a shrink now?” Richie asks. His voice goes up an octave at the end of the sentence, how embarrassing. He bites at his fingernails, chipping the old polish with his teeth. “Bev, you know I’m not good at feelings.” 

“I think you just have a lot of feelings,” Ben chimes in. He’s wearing a shirt with a horse on it. Richie loves it, he needs to tell him later.

“I want to crawl under a rock and shimmy my way across the sea.”

Bev and Ben, despite their efforts to make this a serious conversation, smother peals of laughter. Bev gathers herself first. “No! No, Richie, c’mon. You can’t just tell Eddie that you love him and not expect to ever talk about it again.”

“You told Eddie you love him?” Ben asks. His voice is encouraging. Richie desperately wishes for the rocking chair. “Why?”

“Why? My sweet Benjamin, when a man and a woman love each other very much…” Richie drifts off. He fights the urge to continue his quip, steadies his hands in his lap, and bounces his leg up and down. Big breath. Time to put on some adult pants.

“Because I think I do. I think I’ve loved him for a while. And that’s fucking terrifying, isn’t it? And what if I actually don’t? What if we stop being friends?”

“Okay, dude. That’s a lot to unravel and I appreciate the honesty,” Beverly says. “I dragged Ben into this, and we’re not going to tell you specifics, but Bill’s been texting Eddie a lot and I really think you need to talk to him, not to us.” She pauses. “If it helps at all, Ben and I have talked a lot about our - quote unquote gross word alert - feelings, and it’s not always easy. Sometimes it doesn’t feel productive. But communication is really important and I think talking to Eddie about this - whatever you feel _it_ may be - is the best way to handle it.” Ben nods. 

The seven-year power couple hath spoken. Richie really wishes he had his rocking chair.

* * *

Richie decides to talk to Eddie when he gets home.

They text occasionally, short “good morning, have fun at work, don’t die from boredom in Derry, don't melt from the heat, you witch” texts, but the Skype calls stop. Richie purposefully makes sure he’s not near a laptop around 8:00, unsure if he’ll be able to control his impulse to word vomit all over Eddie when they’re not ready.

He still picks him up from the airport.

Richie’s moving from one foot to another, using his height to peer over the mass of people waiting for their dearests ( _???_ ) to return from the war. He has a coffee in one hand, ready for Eddie. Two squirts of cinnamon vanilla.

Maybe it’s a _sorry I told you I love you and didn’t really talk to you for two weeks_ coffee. Maybe, maybe not.

He’s humming Wham!’s _Last Christmas_ in, yet another, poor attempt to curb his thoughts, when he spots Eddie’s blonde head. He’s standing on his tiptoes, trying to find Richie among the wave of people.

“Eds!” he blurts out. Thankfully, Richie’s tall; Eddie spots him and comes bustling over, dragging his suitcase through swarms. His backpack is slung over his shoulders. He’s not smiling, but he’s not frowning, he seems pretty neutral, in fact, and Richie immediately feels a surge of energy bubble from his toes to his ears.

“Hot coffee for one Eddie Kaspbrak!” he says when Eddie reaches him. He probably should’ve said hello, oh well. “It’s a - well, it’s kind of a congratulations and an apology coffee. So I understand if you decline but if you could do so politely I humbly accept the rejection.” It’s quiet for a beat. He's not really talking about the coffee. Richie starts to grab the suitcase handle, preparing himself for a rough conversation on the car ride home, when he sees that Eddie’s on his tiptoes again. He takes Richie’s cheeks in his hands, runs his thumbs gently along his cheekbones, and crashes their lips together.

Richie swears to god his heart stops.

But it must not, because he can feel Eddie pull away, his entire face bright red. Richie's can feel the heat coming from his own cheeks; he's probably blushing as much as Eddie. Not about to let their lobster-like appearances dissuade him, Richie puts the coffee on a nearby bench and swoops in for another kiss. His neck cranes down and his fingers are drawn to run circles at the nape of Eddie's neck. Their lips move against another easily, and Richie’s aware that he’s kissing his best friend in the best _fucking_ way possible. Eddie tastes like coffee. Richie slides his tongue across Eddie's bottom lip, and feels like he's going to collapse onto the ground. Someone - _yowza_ , they’re in the airport, aren't they? - wolf whistles and Eddie pulls away to catch his breath and Richie pulls away to triple check his heart did not stop.

“I think we have a lot to talk about,” Eddie says. His lips are red now. His smile reaches his eyes.

Richie grins back. Their hands fit perfectly together, just as they always have, and Richie’s comfortable. This conversation? It’ll be okay. It’ll be more than okay.

“We sure do, Eds.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! a couple of things -
> 
> 1\. the song in richie's head is "gone for a while", beta radio on youtube  
> 2\. richie named his truck after oscar the grouch because it's green


End file.
